On this day, I am won’t to write about nothing wanton, no excesses and no irreverence.
Being Easter weekend and all, I was egged on to discuss how things were “heating up” as I read in Dick’s column that a “pretty Carib” was liking the egg cutter created by Lew, Gal and Lowdown.
Truth is, reader, I am hoping you – like some – like it hot.
My colleagues, Cheryl and Jamal, love anything hot and wash it down with some
newly-discovered delicious goat’s milk and bay leaf, except Cheryl prefers her milk chocolatey.
Imagine my alarm when I awoke Tuesday morning to realise that I had a visit to the gynaecologist the very day after the first full lunar eclipse of 2014. The alarm was broken; and I was late. But while I hastily downed the goat’s milk and bay leaf, I vaguely remembered some tale about eclipses, pregnancy and bad luck; and then began to worry. What if???
What if a bariffle of women really took the baby-making and finger-shaking to heart; and what if they began baking?
Some hot cross buns would be in the oven by now, but would they be cursed? I read that conception during an eclipse is a bad omen . . . but some ’omen I know didn’t know. Suppose next nine months we get some rebel babies, like the one that got arrested last week in Lahore?
The last thing I did before I got inside the doctor’s office was to put some colour on my lips. To my astonishment, three of my former classmates were contained herein. I thought two were here to support one, but all three came separately; and the results were positive. They were all pregnant.
Incidentally, there were rabbits stuck all over the office; perhaps in celebration of the Easter season.
I felt like the oddity, having an unexciting routine check. Here we were, in gynaecological order; and I was last. The eldest, but the least fruitful among them. I opened my bag and reached for the banana which was the remainder of my breakfast. (By the way, can anyone explain how goat’s milk doesn’t affect my lactose intolerance?)
Finally, I was called: “Miss V?” Apparently, the secretary seems to find a giggle in referring to me as such in a gynaecologist’s office. Mind you, if she sees me anywhere else, I revert to “Veoma” status.
Talking about names, I can’t leave you on this particular day without mentioning “God”.
Yes, some parents, perhaps in a hurry, gave their Russian son the name and it’s now causing hellish havoc.
“God” won’t change his name at all, so the confusion continues. Reminds me of the story about Joe Smellyboomboom. He was laughed at and teased all his life until his attorney told him he actually had the right to change his name. He went through the legalities and changed his name. Feeling like a new man, looking forward to no more teasing and taunting, he now calls himself Tom.
Veoma Ali is an author, actor, broadcaster, advertising exec and most importantly, a karaoke lover.
